here, right now
by kanmuri
Summary: Tony Stark is a wealth of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Luckily for Rhodey, most of them involve orgasms.


Title: here, right now

Pairing/s: Tony/Rhodey

Disclaimer: Rejoining the Marvel fandom after years away, sorry for any mistakes.

Summary: Tony Stark is a wealth of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Luckily for Rhodey, most of them involve orgasms.

* * *

It's been two weeks since James Rhodes was falling to his death on direct account of Tony Stark.

* * *

It's been nine days since Rhodey woke up, eyes blinking open and flickering around wildly. God only knows what was in his head the moment he realized he couldn't move his legs. Couldn't stand on his own, couldn't eat on his own, surrounded by nurses and the conspiciously-shaded gaze of a genius-billionaire.

It's been five days since Rhodey's been attached to the legs—since Tony had to _build_ his best friend robotic legs, because the doctors had confirmed that, yes, there _will_ be some paralysis, and yes, it _will_ be long-term. It's been four days, thirteen hours since Tony punched a government-employed Head Surgeon across the mouth.

It's been three days since James Rhodes last looked Tony Stark in the eyes.

* * *

As luck would have it, being widely recognized as the resident King of Bad Decisions means Tony's had a lot of practice dealing with the particular emotion of Towering, Crippling Guilt. Ah. _There_ , see? Prime example of a Stark-brand coping mechanism: making puns that by all rights invite a well-deserved slap in the face. If Pepper were here—(if Steve wasn't Wrong) (if Rhodey could look at him)—Tony might say it out loud.

But Tony's far too experienced in his role as a Self-Loathing Motherfucker to waste his time on a coping mechanism that heeds no results. Justifying his basic existence has been elevated almost to an art form, these days; tasteful, refined, like expensive champagne.

In Tony's (expert) estimation, the overall effectiveness of a good coping mechanism requires its meeting at least 75% of a set criteria. As a result, all Tony Stark-coping mechanisms must be:

A) Self-destructive in some fashion (but not Too Destructive—alcoholism leads to isolation leads to depression leads to brain death, kids).

B) Kiiiiind of jerk-ish.

C) Wholly distracting (three days buried in the lab usually does the trick).

D) _Extremely_ expensive (we're talking Playboy Mansion pool girls, great bands, probably a yacht).

E) A whole lot of fucking fun.

Shockingly, declaring himself Rhodey's official auto-physiotherapist for the remainder of his recovery meets less than 25% of these criteria.

Which is probably why one hour, fifteen minutes ago, that's exactly what Tony did.

* * *

Since becoming Iron Man, he's been somewhat surprised to discover a strong sense of justice sleeping within him. Of particular significance to Tony is the concept of _penance_ : AKA Karma is a bitch and comes in Hot-Rod red.

AKA Superheroes who kill cops deserve to lose their shields. AKA Barnes killed his mom and deserves to die.

Tony paralyzed Rhodey and deserves... well, whatever _this_ particular feeling is, the one that strikes his heart whenever Rhodey loses his grip and stumbles to his knees against the railing.

But though it meets Criteria A, that itching, crawling need to get sick or punch someone (or do something far worse) compromises Criterias B and E. So Tony makes some lame crack about Rhodey falling for him, and the baleful look Rhodes shoots him in return soothes the sting momentarily.

They hobble to the work station in the lab and Tony starts fiddling around with his scanner, while Rhodey half-collapses against the table, groaning. "Tony, I swear to God, don't get ideas in your head about designing prosthetics for war orphans, 'kay?"

"But they'd be super cool," Tony insists as he tunes a transmitter. "I could design them to look like Iron Man. Kids'd be all over that."

"Right, because Tony Stark is _such_ an appropriate role-model."

"See, that's why orphans are perfect. No upper-middle-class suburban moms to disapprove."

Rhodey lets out something that might be a snort, neatly conveying his opinion of _that_ logic. Tony helps him detach the legs, and they continue on in silence for a few brief moments.

Then Tony says, "So, how's the, ah, plumbing doing, anyway?"

Rhodey fixes him with a blank stare for a full thirty seconds. Helpfully, Tony gestures in the general area.

"Ah! No, I _get it_ , I get it," aaaaand he's back, looking mildly traumatized and covering his eyes with his hands. Rhodey shakes his head. "Just—just tryna, you know, process how you still manage to surprise me with the heights of insensitivity you are capable of reaching."

"So, no complaints?" Tony circles Rhodey, eyeing the area of interest critically. "Everything up and running? No lags? Firing at—"

"God, _enough_ with the War Machine puns. _Yes_ , it's cool. Mostly. Doctors say—well, anyway, it's all good."

Tony jumps on that. "I could help, you know," he offers, nonchalantly. "Build you some sort of... Super-Penis."

"Oh, is that what you spend all your time down here working on?"

"I'm serious, think about it. You could be ten inches long, Rhodes."

Rhodey smirks. "I already am ten inches."

"Well, we'll—" ( _Seven point nine inches fully erect_ , his scanner informs him; Tony tucks the information away for future reference) "—we'll agree size is relative to the general expanse of the known universe. But there's other ways a Super-Penis could be beneficial. I could connect it to your nervous system. Incredible pleasure, incredible stamina. Boner on command." Rhodey's not looking convinced. Tony tries harder. He adds, "...I could make it self-cleaning."

"Thanks, Tony, but I'm pretty happy with what I have," Rhodey tells him.

"Ah, but does _what you have_ vibrate and produce its own lubricant? I keep telling you, Rhodes, there's room for improvement in every piece of equipment."

"I mean, that's not what your _mom_ said last night, but, okay."

See, that's why Rhodey is perfect. Two weeks, seven hours, since Tony witnessed the brutal murder of his mother at the hands of a soulless freak of nature, and Rhodey's managed to pull a 'your mom' joke with such precision Tony actually _grins_. Tony doesn't deserve Rhodey. Like, at all.

"Considering my mother's taste in men, you'll forgive me for taking her judgement with a grain of salt," Tony says. He sighs with great resignation. "Well, I guess there's nothing that can be done. Pants down, soldier. Let's have a look."

Rhodey's self-righteous grin slips a little. "Tony—" he begins.

Tony makes an impatient motion with his hand. "Well, on with it, then, we don't have all day."

Rhodey makes a faint noise of disbelief, but pulls down the zipper on his jeans obligingly. "Really?" he asks, glancing around at the empty lab. "We doin' this here?"

"Doing what here?" Tony is all innocence. "I'm your auto-physiotherapist. There are things I need to know. For science."

"Oh, yeah, you getting your hands all over my dick _definitely_ has medical relevance."

"Whoever said anything about my hands on your dick?"

Tony decides the tight breath Rhodey sucks in counts as a coping mechanism. His hands find the back of Rhodey's thighs. Slowly, Tony drags down the rest of Rhodey's jeans, feeling the warm friction of Rhodey's boxers against his fingernails.

Seven point nine inches may not be porno-length, but it's definitely not a detriment. Tony has to swallow at the sight of the bulge beneath the little War Machine-stamped boxer shorts (side note, tease Rhodey about that _forever_ , because that is _hilarious_ ). He reaches for the small of Rhodey's back; catches his fingers under the hem. Slides the underwear down past Rhodey's knees.

 _God_ , what a view. Rhodey's cock is— _God_. _Wow_. Tony is appropriately transfixed.

Rhodey's smug look shakes him out of it. "Best face you make, hands down," he grins. "Love that face."

Tony's mind expertly blocks out the word 'love' and he slips his hand beneath the back of Rhodey's shirt. He can feel Rhodey's shoulder muscles, _fucking hell_ even with the loss of muscle mass Rhodey is impossibly firm, impossibly tight. Tony can barely stand it.  
He feels himself growing hard inside his jeans.

...

He's got to hurry this up.

Tony moves his hands to the base of Rhodey's cock. He lowers his mouth, then tentatively parts his lips and begins to suck on the very tip of Rhodey's head.

Rhodey lets out a strange, muted sound. He's not really hard yet but Tony's very good at what he does, and already there's short, heavy breaths coming from low in his throat. Tony licks at Rhodey's tip lightly. Takes a little more in.

That _sigh_. That's another coping mechanism in and of itself. Tony finds _healing_ in that sigh.

Tony pulls back—with great reluctance, mind you—to take a moment and remove his shirt. The heat is starting to get to him; clothing and Tony Stark are not great friends at the best of times, and right now all he wants to be is skin and sweat under Rhodey's hands. When he swallows Rhodey again, he feels Rhodey's fingers tangle in the back of his hair.

Rhodey's very slowly starting to get hard, now, visibly expanding under Tony's ministrations. Tony rubs the base of Rhodey's cock. He can feel the growing firmness; shuts his eyes, focusing only on the sensation of Rhodey in his mouth.

Tony takes in as much as he can. Unfortunately, his throat isn't designed to accomodate seven inches of dick; the length of Rhodey fills him, chokes him. It's inconvenient, but God in heaven is it _ridiculously_ hot.

Imagine _that_ inside him. Tony makes a faint noise.

"Mm," Rhodey hums, "That's real nice, Tony. Keep goin'."

Tony promptly decides that he loves the sound of his name in Rhodey's mouth. It's like a song written exclusively about him—and yeah, okay, there are _already_ songs written exclusively about him, but they're mostly for kid's commercials. Rhodey's voice is hoarse and rich all at once, and it's pretty much renewing Tony's very _soul_ , so... You know, marked improvement.

(Mentally, Tony jots it down as another coping mechanism.)

He sucks Rhodey deep, wishing he could cry out loud. He settles instead for a low humming. Rhodey grasps the edge of the table. "Yeah," mutters Rhodey, "Just like that. Tony, just—"

Oh, God. Rhodey's _ass_. Now _there's_ a coping mechanism. Tony discovers it as he reaches first for Rhodey's hips, then for his back. _Captain America_ couldn't beat Rhodey's ass—and yes, Tony is quite sure, having taken multiple opportunities to observe both.

Tony could probably write poetry about the way Rhodey's ass melts into the back of his thighs; the muscled tightness, the tender skin. It'd be really shitty poetry, but he's fairly certain he could convince Vision to proofread for him. Not that anyone else is allowed to look at Rhodey's ass for the forseeable future.

"Keep goin', Tony, keep goin'," Rhodey groans.

Right. Tony's momentarily lost his rhythm, caught up in the contemplation of Rhodey's finer features. He works to find it again, is pleased to hear a strangled grunt as he grazes Rhodey's shaft with his teeth.

"Tony, ah—"

A vivid picture floods Tony's mind—Rhodey, tugging up his uniform collar tomorrow to hide Tony's marks, cheekbones tinged a dark red. Tony moans a little. His cock twitches in his jeans.

"Fuck," Rhodey pants, eyes squeezed shut, "fuck, Tony, that sound. Fuck, so hot..."

 _So_ _hot_ , Tony agrees, listening to Rhodey's hastened breathing. _So hot, so beautiful, so..._

It takes awhile, but when Rhodey comes, he bites something back between his teeth and it makes Tony want to die a little because it sounds like _Tony's name_ , and the taste of Rhodey fills Tony's mouth and throat because no one would ever call Tony Stark a quitter. He swallows it all eagerly and Rhodey keeps letting out little choked sounds, twitching uncontrollably against the table.

Another coping mechanism: the way James Rhodes looks when he comes.

They're both quiet for a moment, panting over each other, the silence of the room loud and overwhelming. And in it, Tony feels the resonance of that _feeling_ , that itching, crawling need, and suddenly he can't stop himself anymore.

In another instant, Tony is kissing Rhodey, deep and all over.

He presses his lips to Rhodey's flanks and inhales, catching the scent of sweat and sex and Old Spice, because _yes_ , Colonel James Rhodes is a fourteen-year-old boy. He kisses them again and again, and then Rhodey's stomach, and his ribs, pushing up the shirt carelessly. He kisses Rhodey's neck and the side of his face until he can't breathe.

"Whoa, whoa, Tony—" Rhodey laughs, putting his hands up in mock-defence. Tony doesn't stop. He kisses Rhodey's eyes, his nose, his forehead; then the top of Rhodey's head is between his palms and he's kissing that, too.

"Tony—" Rhodey tries again.

Rhodey's hair feels coarse against his lips.

"Tony—"

"Tony, hey—"

"Tony!"

Tony is gasping for breath as Rhodey pushes him off, dark eyes full of concern. "Hey," Rhodey says, voice soft again, and Tony is dimly aware he is shaking. "You can kiss me here, too, you know." He picks up Tony's hand, runs it over his lips.

Tony swallows. Rhodey's worried gaze doesn't leave him. Somewhere in the back of Tony's mind, it occurs to him that the blame for their recent lack of eye-contact may not... entirely belong to Rhodey.

"You're paralyzed because of me." It comes out like it's being wrenched from him.

Rhodey lets out a long sigh. "Tony, we've been through this. I believe in the Registration—"

"Say it, then. Say if Cap and I had been on different sides, you'd have followed him over me."

A small, tired grin passes over Rhodey's face. "Well, I mean _someone_ would've had to be there to cover your ass..."

"Doesn't matter." Tony shakes his head. "This happened to you because of me. My fault. I'm sorry."

"Tony, I swear to God if you don't stop saying that—" Rhodey growls.

"Then tell me what you want to hear from me, alright? Tell me what I can say to make this better, and I'll say _that_. I swear it."

Rhodey is quiet for a long moment.

Something releases in Tony; something quiet and defeated. He looks down at where his hands rest against Rhodey's thighs, at the legs Rhodey can no longer move of his own free will. "But you can't," he continues, voice utterly flat. "There's nothing I can say that can give you back what I've taken from you. Not this time."

"Tony—" Rhodey seems to grasp for words. For a few seconds, he just clutches Tony's head to his neck, letting him breathe unsteadily against him. Tony's eyes fall shut. The memory of Rhodey's still face in the helmet sends a cold into his lungs.

God, what could have happened...

"I did what I did because I believe in the Registration." Tony becomes aware that Rhodey is speaking into his hair. His mouth opens automatically, ready to call bullshit, but Rhodey shuts him up with a painful squeeze. "I also did it because you asked me too. But that doesn't mean I did it _because of you_ , or _for you_." Which makes a lot of sense in Cloud Cuckoo Land. "Tony, I did it because you're my best friend, and I love you, and I'm not the kind of person to let the people I love go into danger alone. Does that make sense?"

Tony tries to shake his head. He wants to deny it, but Rhodey's holding him tight between his hands.

"I'm not that kind of person, Tony. If I'd let you go alone, I wouldn't be _me_. I mean, okay, sure, I probably wouldn't be here right now if I'd just stayed home and watched the game, but I also think... I wouldn't be _here_ right now, either, y'know? You wouldn't—you wouldn't like me too much if I were that sorta coward."

So now it's _Tony's_ fault he's got a thing for big, strapping heroes? He pushes himself free, finally, and manages to look Rhodey in the eyes.

Rhodey's smile is by far the best coping mechanism he's ever had.

It also sends heat straight down to the tip of his cock, a painful reminder of his current state. Tony blinks rapidly.

Rhodey's gaze becomes half-lidded, wandering down to the hardness pressing against Tony's jeans, then back up again. "On the other hand, I can probably think of a few pros to being _here_ , right now," he murmurs, and okay, that is—that is, _wow_. Entirely unnecessary. Tony makes a pathetic attempt to regulate his heartbeat.

"You could return the favour," he manages.

"Wish I could do more than that," Rhodey says, and begins to tug Tony's hand towards his softened cock.

Tony draws back and snaps his fingers. "Aha! There, see? That's exactly what the Super-Penis would be perfect for. Instant recovery. You could tie my hands to the table leg and fuck me just minutes after—"

Abruptly, Tony finds his wrists pinned to the table-ledge with the strength of Rhodey's grip, lower lip caught between Rhodey's teeth. He lets out a hoarse moan, the words on his tongue dying instantly. What was he talking about, again?

"This Super-Penis," Rhodey grunts between kisses, "it wouldn't happen to have a ball-gag feature, would it?"

"It could," Tony gasps. Rhodey bites his way down Tony's neck, pausing at—oh _shit_ , his _nipple_ , his _very sensitive nipple_ , oh _fuck_... "It could be time-released, more of a muting option, really, confusing the wires in your partner's brain to inhibit spee—ah, _shit_ , Rhodes!"

Rhodey's still sucking his nipple, but he's managed to snake his hand beneath Tony's jeans, long fingers wrapped around the length of Tony's cock. He rubs a thumb along the tip; Tony draws a sharp breath.

"You mentioned vibrating?" Rhodey asks.

"For the ladies, mostly."

"And what about for you?"

Tony whines as Rhodey pulls out his hand to unzip Tony's jeans, _finally_ , _God_. Tony drops them to the floor. He climbs out of his boxers and suddenly he is in Rhodey's lap, and Rhodey is stroking his shaft.

It's not the most comfortable position. The unconnected wiring pokes into Tony's skin and the table's probably pretty hard, too. But Tony very quickly finds himself agreeing with Rhodey's assertion that there are a number of pros to being _here, right now_ , when Rhodey removes his shirt.

There aren't really words to describe Rhodey shirtless. That expanse of skin, the carved muscles, the deep tones...

He's scarred, yes. All over, some places more than others. But between the scars Rhodey has the most flawless skin, and Tony's seen a lot of skin. Rhodey's skin is so dark and so smooth, so soft, so firm. Almost glowing, almost golden. For a brief instant, Tony is completely posessed by the impulse to bury himself under it.

"For me..." Tony runs a hand along Rhodey's side. "I could include a prostate-stimulator."

Rhodey snorts. "Right. That's just perfect for you, isn't it? You can barely handle catching _now_ , you'd blow in seconds from something like that. Then what am I supposed to do?"

Tony considers. "Well, I suppose I could make it detachable."

"A detachable mechanical penis? What good's that?"

"Well," Tony swallows thickly. He forces himself to pull back, to stand, to walk over to the tool cabinet and pull out some hand lotion. "You could always enjoy the show."

He moves back to the work table and helps Rhodey down onto a chair beside. The legs whir as Tony re-attaches them; when they're secure, Tony climbs up onto the table where Rhodey was sitting. He spreads his legs, braces them against the arms of the chair. Rhodey takes the hand lotion.

Tony's gotta close his eyes at the sight of Rhodey squirting hand lotion onto his fingers. He's got a great imagination, see, and right now he's way too far gone to allow himself to exercise it.

There's a brief pause, and then Rhodey's strong finger is poking at Tony's entrance.

"Tell me more about this detacthing feature," Rhodey requests.

"A sex-machine, basically," Tony says, trying to keep his voice steady. He's not particularly successful. "With varied settings for speed and— _ah—_ force."

"Ah, good." Rhodey gives a satisfied nod. "I could start slow, then."

Holy fuck, is Rhodey actually trying to kill Tony? Tony takes a shaky breath, and nods his confirmation.

Rhodey pushes the finger deeper, twisting it back and forth slowly. "I suppose the ball-gag thing isn't enitrely necessary, but I'm thinking the tying-you-up might be," he continues.

Holy fuck, Rhodey _is_ actually trying to kill Tony.

"Not to the table legs, though. Bed posts, maybe. Or a wall, a wall might be nice. Yeah, you could sit on this table and I could tie you to the wall. Hands above your head, legs spread out. Then comes the fuck-machine."

"Sex-machine," Tony corrects, gasping. Rhodey rolls his eyes.

"Fine, sex-machine. You always gotta kill it, don't you?"

"Talent," Tony flashes Rhodey a winning grin. The effect is ruined somewhat when Rhodey starts with the second finger, and Tony lets out a small keening sound.

Rhodey pushes Tony back onto the table, until Tony's half-lying on his back with Rhodey's fingers inside him. "Then again, I kinda like how you look pinned down, so there's probably some room for manueverability there." He curls his fingers; Tony stifles a cry. "The sex-machine would start moving faster pretty quick, 'cos I'm all sorts of impatient by now."

"H— _ungh—_ how fast?"

"What, you want velocity stats? Fast enough to shut you up."

Rhodey shoves the fingers deeper. He twirls his hand, pushes in and out. Faster, deeper, _deeper_. Tony does his best not to thrust into Rhodey, but it's totally a losing battle.

"So we're revisting the ball-gag scenario, then?" Oh, boy, his voice is cracking like a teenage boy's. That's new.

But, "Nah," Rhodey tells him, chuckling.

Rhodey pulls his fingers out, which, by the way, is something only a _sadistic psychopath_ would do. He reapplies the handcream. Then he adds a third finger, and Tony is gulping in air because now he's thinking about Rhodey's fingers, how long they are, how narrow and bony and _beautiful_ and how they're _inside of him_.

He lets out an embarrassing moan—the kind that's half-breath, half-soul-leaving-your-body. Rhodey smirks.

"I dont need a Super-Penis to inhibit your speech," he says.

Tony tries to argue this point. Really, he does.

All of a sudden there's black, something like wind rushing in his ears, momentarily deafening him. When he can breathe again, he opens his eyes. The world is popping in colours, stars, and Rhodey is grinning down at him.

"See," he says smugly, "turns out you come with your own off-switch."

"Funny," Tony gasps, "how totally Not-Turned-Off I am."

As punishment for the smart-ass comment, Rhodey pulls out his fingers, and the sound that leaves Tony is definitely _not_ a whimper. There's a squirting noise, a slick chafing. After a pause, Tony feels the tip of Rhodey's head pushing at him, full and hard.

"I'm takin' it slow, Tony," Rhodey murmurs, so quiet Tony can barely hear him. For just a moment, it's the real Rhodey, the real Tony, the ones who follow into the danger and the ones who paralyze their best friends.

Then Rhodey is pushing in, and Tony can't breathe, and after a few tries Rhodey finds the spot again.

"You'd come pretty fast, I think, so I'd— _uhm—_ probably have to keep that sex-machine going for awhile after. Y'know, to punish you."

Tony's got words, somewhere. A brain, even. He's at least 86% sure.

He manages an intelligent, "Rh... _Rho—_ "

"Fuck you till you're just shaking, can't even cry out. Can't tell me to stop. Not that you would, though, right?"

" _Never_ ," Tony swears like it's an oath.

Rhodey's rough, jerking rhythm is probably gonna kill him. The sparks of pleasure hit him intermittently, unexpectedly. It's almost painful. But _God_ , _no_ , _never_ , would there ever be a universe where Tony told Rhodey to stop.

Tony grabs at his cock, trying to keep a grip on it. His hands feel tingly with sweat. He hears static little cries, punctuating Rhodey's thrusts; takes a moment to recognize himself as the source. He wonders if he's always this humiliating, or if this is just a special case.

Suddenly, Rhodey's calloused hand covers his. Tony remembers, _yeah_ , he's pretty much always this humiliating.

For the next few minutes ( _for the next eternity_ ), Tony can't speak, breathes only when he starts to pass out. (Honestly, he's a total wreck, but that's old news). Rhodey is so beautiful ( _God **so** beautiful_ ) and Tony can't get over it: can't process how much he loves and needs and pines for Rhodey under his skin.

At some point he feels Rhodey's fingers clenching into him and realizes he's on the edge, and the only words in his mouth are " _Rhodey_ , _Rhodey_ , _Rhodey_ ," as he comes. He lets out a sob and feels release spill out of him.

Rhodey keeps thrusting; Tony's a babbling mess.

(That, too, is nothing new).

" _God_ , _so_ _hot_ ," he thinks he hears Rhodey mumble under his breath, before he comes a few moments later. He collapses on top of Tony, utterly spent.

And Tony feels healed.

* * *

They clamber off of each other and stumble to the bedroom when they can move again-because, as Rhodey logically points out, work tables are _not_ meant to serve as substitutes for a bed. (Tony decides it's probably best not to mention there are blankets and pillows in the lab for that _express_ _purpose_. Hey, Jarvis insisted.)

When morning comes, Tony gets straight to work. Around eight-thirty Rhodey pokes his head down the stairs and rubs at his face groggily.

"You—you're not makin' a Super-Penis down there, right?" he asks, sounding more than a little concerned about the answer.

Tony doesn't reply right away, which causes Rhodey's eyes to widen comically.

"Tony, I _told_ you—"

"Not a Super-Penis." Tony crosses himself, fires a salute. "Scout's honour. Seriously, go back to bed, Rhodey. You've probably completely worn those legs out by now."

Rhodey mutters something Tony doesn't quite catch and heads back up the stairs. Quietly, Tony smiles to himself.

He reaches forward, and activates the War Machine helmet sitting on the table before him.

" _What can I do for you, Mr. Rhodes?_ " asks Rhodey's new A.I.

* * *

 _fin_


End file.
